


We had a bonding moment

by Guestswithoutbags



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Arguing, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Enemies, M/M, Truth or Dare, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guestswithoutbags/pseuds/Guestswithoutbags
Summary: “Keith, buddy,” Lance starts in that fucking infuriating arrogant voice he puts on, “I know you’re obsessed with me but be like Elsa and just let it go.”His comment earns him a few giggles and that pisses Keith off even more. Lance loves to think that he’s funny and anyone who validates his god-awful jokes with a laugh just adds to the ever-expanding size of his head.“Oh but you do remember, Lance.” Keith narrows his eyes at him as if warning him that this is about to turn ugly.You don’t poke a bear in the eye.Lance laughs, not at all worried, as if Keith is Winnie the Pooh and not a raging brown bear about to rip out his vocal cords through his throat.“You’re deluded.”He needs to be careful because Keith is a bear. A very angry bear and Lance’s finger is hovering dangerously close to his iris. You don’t poke a bear in the eye, not even Winnie the fucking Pooh.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 109





	We had a bonding moment

**Author's Note:**

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It happens during one of their ‘relaxed’ nights. When they’re far enough away from the incessant Galra bullshit.

One whole night free from fighting, training and kissing ass.

They should be exhausted.

They _are_ exhausted.

But these nights are rare, so rare that Keith can’t even remember the last time they had one. If they even had one.

And so, they make the most out of it…well, as best as they can when they’re trapped on a 10,000-year-old spaceship with only each other as company.

What they need is a party, Lance says, babbling on about beer pong and kegs and music and dancing, growing as excited as he is nostalgic.

But they don’t have beer pong or kegs, Keith points out. And the only music onboard is some weird Altean jazz tunes that Keith thinks he could have created himself using a tin can and a bag of shit.

Plus he’s a terrible dancer and no amount of alcohol that they don’t have and shit Altean music would change that.

They’re about to call it a night when they realise they have nothing needed for a semi-good shindig. Pidge’s comment about throwing a kid’s party complete with musical chairs and party hats falls on deaf ears. They’re way too old for that shit.

So they all get to their feet, defeated, about to trudge off to their respective rooms when Coran appears at the door, grinning from ear to ear and clutching several jugs of questionable cloudy yellow liquid which sloshes violently against its sides.

“Grandad’s Moonshine!” He announces proudly, presenting each member of the group with their own jug.

“It looks like horse piss,” Keith comments, scrunching his nose up in disgust as he pops off the cork and takes a whiff, “Eurghh, smells like horse piss too.”

“Doesn’t taste like horse piss!” Lance says cheerily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, clearly having just taken a swig.

“You would know,” Keith quips, earning him a high five from Pidge and a death glare from Lance whose “Ha-ha-ha, I’m Keith and I’m so funny” impression gets cut off by Shiro’s announcement.

“Okay, gang,” He says, like the leader he is, “We have two options – either we go to our rooms and get an early night. Or we take Coran up on his very kind offer and get shit faced.”

The room quickly descends into madness; Shiro never swears, nor does he get ‘shit faced’. Back on earth, he was tee-total. He didn’t drink, smoke or take sugar in his coffee. Keith wonders if he’s been replaced with a clone.

Hunk seems to agree, “Who are you and what have you done with Shiro?” he says, slapping him on the back heartedly.

They quickly realise that the general consensus is to get shit faced. Even Allura is down to party, arguing against Shiro’s decision to take Pidge’s jug of moonshine away from her.

“She can have _one_ glass, Allura. _One_ glass!” He scolds, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, let the girl live!” Allura demands, pulling Pidge closer to her as if to protect her from Shiro’s space-dad-mode.

It works.

He doesn’t argue.

So it happens on that night and if Keith really thinks about it, it was kind of inevitable.

It starts with the game of beer pong which gets cut short due to Lance’s and Keith’s incessant arguing.

“You did that on purpose!” Keith complains as Lance nudges the table deliberately, making him miss his shot. He’s not overly bothered by it. In fact, it’s what he expects, and if truth be told, he was looking forward to a bit of playful banter.

“You lost, get over it.” Lance spits nastily, not a hint of playfulness to his tone of voice.

“Uhuh, whatever you say. At least I didn’t have to cheat to win.”

Keith tries to catch Lance’s eye to give him that look. Their look. To let him know that he’s not really bothered about a stupid game. He knows how this thing works between them. At least he thought he did, but something seems off about Lance tonight.

“It’s fucking beer pong, Keith. Get a grip.”

Ouch. Okay… Did Keith shit on his Cheerios or something? He wracks his brain to come up with what he must have done to really rile Lance up. They haven’t argued like this in a long time.

“What's your problem?” He asks, not so much angry as he is upset.

“I don’t have a fucking problem,” Lance bites back instantly, stepping dangerously close into Keith’s space.

What the fuck? Has Keith missed something?

No, but like seriously? What the fuck has he done to warrant Lance being this much of an ass to him?

It isn’t long before they’re nose to nose, spitting insult after insult at each other until Lance gets dragged away by Hunk and Shiro yanks Keith back.

Keith doesn’t know why they still do this. Is it an act? Do they have to keep up pretences? Or are they really the rivals Lance says they are?

It hurts Keith to think it’s the latter.

Not after everything they’ve been through.

Not after how far they’ve come.

Not after…

…

It’s later in the night that he really loses it.

They’ve migrated back to the seating area, choosing to bypass the music and dancing in favour of drinking games. It seems like none of them has a creative bone in their body because they quickly decide on truth or dare.

How original.

“So Lance,” Pidge smirks. She’s drunk. They all are.

The game is on its seventh round at this point, with most of them opting for truths over dares, as they seem to have exhausted their options.

They’re all in various states of disrepair but the highlight has to be Shiro who is sat in nothing but his tight white briefs, Allura having dared him to strip to the god awful Altean Jazz, which he did, not even hesitating even a little bit and enthusiastically grinding against the sofa, trying to be as sensual as possible. It was horrific. Keith swears his soul left his body. He wouldn’t be able to look at his brother in the same way ever again.

“Do you really not remember the bonding moment,” Pidge finishes her question to Lance who had wisely stuck to truths after seeing Shiro’s one-man Magic Mike show.

The question has Keith sitting up straight in his seat, eyes fixed on Lance who is staring at Pidge with that cocky smirk on his face, as casual as anything.

“No. Because it didn’t happen,” he replies easily.

Keith has heard him deny it thousands of times, and although it has always bothered him to hear Lance lie, he had always been sober and sensible, choosing to take the high road and keep silent.

But now? Now Keith is steaming, both in the drunken sense and in the anger management department.

Because bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

“Bullshit,” he voices aloud, voice like venom and eyes razor-sharp, as if they could shoot lasers from them.

Lance’s eyes flit to him dismissively, as if he wasn’t aware Keith was even in the room.

It stings, just like the arguing, just like the denial.

“Keith, buddy,” Lance starts in that fucking infuriating arrogant voice he puts on, “I know you’re obsessed with me but be like Elsa and just let it go.”

His comment earns him a few giggles and that pisses Keith off even more. Lance loves to think that he’s funny and anyone who validates his god-awful jokes with a laugh just adds to the ever-expanding size of his head.

“Oh, but you _do_ remember, Lance.” Keith narrows his eyes at him as if warning him that this is about to turn ugly.

You don’t poke a bear in the eye.

Lance laughs, not at all worried, as if Keith is Winnie the Pooh and not a raging brown bear about to rip out his vocal cords through his throat.

“You’re deluded.”

He needs to be careful because Keith is a bear. A very angry bear and Lance’s finger is hovering dangerously close to his iris. You don’t poke a bear in the eye, not even Winnie the fucking Pooh.

“Am I?” Keith slurs and okay, when did he get this drunk?

“Keith, seriously, I know you want all of this,” Lance gestures obnoxiously to himself, “But as I’ve told you before, it’s not going to happen.”

A few more giggles and it’s all Keith can do to stop himself from launching across the room and punching the smug look off Lance’s face.

The fucking cheek of it.

It’s one thing to deny something that actually happened, it’s a whole other thing for Lance to act like they don’t…like he doesn’t…

God.

Somehow he manages to keep his cool because deep down he knows he has the upper hand in this situation. You see, unlike Lance, who is handling his drink A LOT better than Keith is, and clearly still has some social awareness, Keith is gone with the wind, along with his fucks to give.

He watches as Lance takes things too fucking far as always, calling Keith a psycho and making an absolute meal out of the situation.

He waits and waits. Waits for Lance to finish, waits for the insults to stop spilling out from his mouth but Lance’s mouth is like a runaway train and the next stop is Keith’s mullet and you know what? Fuck this.

He gave him a chance. You can’t say he didn’t.

But he’s beyond wasted now. Beyond having any control over his tongue, and if Lance can spout whatever crap he likes, well, so can Keith.

“We fucked,” He says calmly, as soon as Lance pauses for air.

In the ten seconds that follow his outburst, Keith thinks he’s gone deaf. Because it’s crickets bitch, not a sound to be had. But then Pidge croaks “What?” as though she doesn’t think he’s just said, what she thinks he just said.

But surprise. He fucking said it.

“I said,” Keith begins cockily, “We fucked. Me and him,” he gestures his jug of moonshine in Lance’s direction who is stood gawking at him like he’s got dicks for fingers. “So yeah, we’ve ‘bonded’ and let me tell you, I did more than cradle him in my arms, if you know what I’m saying,” he goes to nudge Shiro with his elbow but misses completely and almost falls off the sofa. Shiro catches him before he decks it and props him back up, barely managing to save both the jug and cup Keith is holding.

He should be embarrassed.

But he's not.

“Are you fucking serious?” Lance splutters angrily, his face visibly red, “I would never ever fuck you, you fucking freak!”

Freak.

That one really stings.

If it hadn’t been clear to Keith before that things weren’t okay between the two of them, it’s crystal fucking clear now.

Keith finally got the memo.

And it’s on.

Oh. It's on.

Lance hasn’t just poked the bear in the eye. He’s fucked the bear with a rake.

Keith is pressed like a Panini and Lance is going to feel his wrath.

“I can prove it.”

Lance snorts, “Like shit you can.”

“ _Oh,”_ Keith says defiantly and you just know the way he says ‘oh’ has Lance’s full fucking attention, “I _can”_ , Keith repeats, drawing out the ‘can’ in the most sinister Disney villain voice he can muster.

Lance is visibly nervous but as always, doesn’t know when to fucking quit and carries on in his one-man-stage-show entitled ‘Denial’, selling it for all it’s worth. Keith can’t help but admire him, he would make a great actor after all.

He lets Lance have a couple more minutes, lets him dig himself into a deeper fucking hole which, let’s be honest, is a crater at this point.

Lets him try to embarrass Keith even more by ridiculing him to the point of no return, how he’s flattered that Keith would want to go there but he has standards and ‘mullets’, unfortunately, don’t make the cut. And how the only way that Lance would have gone there is if Keith had drugged and raped him.

Keith is patient, face neutral, as he swirls what’s left of this god awful moonshine around in his cup. He’s definitely had enough. Enough of the moonshine, enough of Lance’s bullshit.

So he says it.

Out loud.

“I filmed it.”

It’s there.

It’s out in the open.

And Keith is struggling to find a shit to give.

Lance stills immediately. His voice cutting out like someone pressed pause or took out his batteries. He’s frozen in a state of shock and Keith delights at the flush which seems to encompass his whole body like a tidal wave.

It’s fantastic.

The room is silent. Their teammates don’t know where to look. Their eyes flit from Keith to Lance, as if they’re sat at Wimbledon watching a game of tennis instead of a lovers’ quarrel.

Can Keith call them lovers? Does Keith _want_ to call them lovers?

After the ‘rape’ remark, he thinks not.

But whatever. All he knows is that they have sex. They fuck. They do the horizontal tango. The nasty. Bump uglies. Whatever you want to fucking call it, they do it. It’s consensual and Lance fucking loves it, no matter how much he’s trying to deny it now.

Lance splutters, half laughing trying to save face, half absolutely shitting his knickers trying to decide on what word to actually say – as if there is anything he could say to salvage the situation.

He finally decides on, “What?” with a scrunch of his eyebrows, still keeping up appearances that Keith is fucking mental and making shit up.

It’s not immediately incriminating, ‘what’ could mean anything. But his façade is quickly breaking, his house of cards collapsing, and Keith is savouring every fucking second of it.

With a light shrug and an air of not giving a fuck, Keith simply repeats, “I filmed it.” Like it’s no big fucking deal. Like he hasn’t just broken Lance in two. Like the inhabitants of the room aren’t sitting on the edge of their fucking seats for the season finale.

There’s a pause and Keith can almost see the cogs in Lance’s brain going into overdrive – he’s panicking. Scrambling for something to do or say. But Lance wears his heart on his sleeve and his face gives away any secrets he desperately tries to hide. He’s shocked. Outraged, even. All sense of his ‘I promise you, I haven’t fucked Keith’ act has flown well and truly out the window.

He breaks.

And it’s immediate.

There is no slow resolve into admitting that Keith, in fact, is not mental, or deluded, or a sociopath.

It’s instant. It’s…

“YOU FILMED US HAVING SEX!?”

Delicious.

Fucking, delicious.

Keith smirks, his violet eyes finally meeting Lance’s blue ones. He sees the rage in them. The passion that he knows so well in them. It’s what makes the sex with Lance so good. He’s fiery. Emotive. And he lays it all bare for Keith as he’s lying pliant underneath him, moaning like a whore and letting Keith have his way with him.

If he wasn’t a bitter little shit and here to prove a god damn point, and if he hadn’t drunk three gallons of moonshine, he’s pretty sure he would have the boner to end all boners right now.

But he’s bitter and wasted and flaccid, and he has a fucking argument to win. Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it?

Who gets to win.

So he gives another shrug – knowing full well what it will do to Lance. Knowing that it will drive him in-fucking-sane. Knowing that he doesn’t have to say another goddamn thing because Lance still has the shovel and is rapidly digging his own grave.

“WHICH TIME!?”

And there it is.

Keith grins.

Check and mate.

The room gasps and usually, Keith isn’t one for drama but at this very moment, with the moonshine running through his veins and his confidence peaking, call him Bette fucking Davis. Fasten your seatbelts; it’s going to be a bumpy night.

He swirls his beverage around again, flicking his wrist flamboyantly and taking an excruciatingly slow sip. Lance’s wide and panic-stricken eyes are fixed on him, watching his every movement. Keith takes his time, wanting to drag out the glorious moment, knows that his audience is hanging on his everything.

Finally, he lowers his cup and with a devilish smile says, “I was kidding, Lance.”

Lance’s eyes are like two saucers at this point and they widen even more if that’s physically possible.

He’s been had. Well and truly. And he knows it. There’s no going back now. He hadn’t just admitted that he and Keith had fucked, he’d alluded to the fact that they had done it more than once.

And believe Keith, they had.

Keith delights in watching him combust. It’s the indignant spluttering, the flailing of his arms, the red hue that has overtaken his usually tanned complexion. But he’s not quite done, yet.

Has Keith mentioned that Lance doesn’t know when to quit?

“Well, the jokes on you, Mullet,” Lance spits, as though he still has the upper hand in the situation, and Keith can’t help but think despite the amount of times Lance has used the word ‘deluded’ in this conversation, he doesn’t actually know what it means, “Because I’m never sleeping with you again!”

It’s an empty threat and they both know it.

Lance is one horny motherfucker and he loves…LOVES Keith fucking him.

So Keith rolls his eyes and replies, as sarcastically as he can, “Oh no. How will I ever survive?”

There’s laughing.

A lot of it.

Pidge has tears streaming down her face and Keith doesn’t know if it’s from the admission that he and Lance’s do, in fact, have bonding moments – many, _many_ bonding moments, or if it’s from second-hand embarrassment for Lance, but whatever it is, the girl seems to be in her element. Even Shiro and Allura, usually so well put together and mature, are giggling like school children.

Keith smiles, feeling unusually warm.

Somewhere, deep in his consciousness, there’s a nagging voice raging about privacy and airing dirty laundry, and an agreement between him and Lance. But it’s muffled, like static, a warm buzz at the back of his brain… Keith blames it on the moonshine.

He turns back to Lance and immediately sobers at the sight of the boy who is looking at him like Keith just shot a basket of puppies at point-blank range.

He looks, heartbroken.

Devastated.

Crushed beyond compare.

And for god’s sake, really?

No, but like, _really?_

He’d fucking started it! You can’t blame Keith for finishing it.

Lance called him a liar. He’d tried to discredit Keith’s integrity. He’d basically said that Keith wasn’t good enough for someone like Lance. He’d even insulted his hair, for fuck’s sake! But one sarcastic comment from Keith and Lance plays the victim? Okay then, that seems fucking fair.

Lance swallows hard and it’s all he can do not to succumb to his tears. Keith knows this. Knows, Lance. Knows how self-conscious he is. Knows that his biggest fear is rejection. And even though he really shouldn’t, he feels bad.

“Babe, I’m joking.”

They only use their terms of endearment behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of them in their own little world. Saying it out loud, in front of all their friends take guts. Guts that Keith didn’t think he’d ever have. But that was before Grandad's moonshine.

It’s not enough.

Lance seems committed to having a meltdown. His bottom lip quivers and despite his better judgement, Keith’s heart breaks a little.

“No. You’ve said it now!” He sobs hysterically, turning swiftly on his heel and fleeing the room as dramatic and over the top as expected.

There’s silence and Keith doesn’t even have to cock his head to know that all eyes are on him.

He goes to stand up, but the room suddenly starts to spin like he's on a waltzer and... oh shit, just how do legs work again?

He feels like Bambi on ice...Who the fuck allowed him to get this drunk?

“S’ok” he slurs, the motion of standing sending him west.

He’s lost in the sauce.

Absolutely 10 shits to Sunday.

If he can stagger back to his bedroom, let alone go and console an upset Lance it will be a miracle.

A Christmas miracle.

But fuck it. He’s the mother fucking Black Paladin of Voltron. He was born for this shit.

So he puts one foot in front of the other like a fucking man and ends up face planting the floor, knocking over several cups of moonshine in the process.

Pidge snorts.

“S’okay” he repeats, ignoring the laughter and Shiro’s exasperated, “For fuck’s sake…” and drags himself to his shaking feet, sopping wet from the drinks he took out.

“I got dis,” he says confidently, giving what he thinks is a thumbs up in the direction of his teammates and almost falling over, again.

They watch in comical awe as he somehow, and he really does mean somehow, manages to stagger to the doorway, but not before walking into the sofa, coffee table and tripping up the stairs several times.

He pauses at the door, turning to his teammates one last time.

“Thank you for inviting me, I had a wonderful time,” he says, before doubling over and vomiting violently on the floor.

Something in the back of his mind tells him that he's going to regret this in the morning.

"Well," Pidge says, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her sleeves, "I think we can all agree, Lance remembers the bonding moment." 


End file.
